


junkmarket props

by CampionSayn



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: M/M, Tumblr Prompt, artist/dancer!Connor, florist!Evan, this is super short I'm so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 14:22:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14750555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CampionSayn/pseuds/CampionSayn
Summary: Anonymous said:Can I kindly request ‘I’m on the verge of tears because of a rude customer and you step in and stand up for me’ AU for tree bros? Only if you want of course! Thanks!Yes.





	junkmarket props

_He was spinning again._

_Evan looked out into the cold New York winter night, barely registering the white snow that fell across his hand as he leaned over his window ledge and watched his neighbor across the way lose himself._

* * *

He couldn't breathe under the scrutiny and ridicule of the customer that found him in the back of the shop, just trying to run an errand for the head of the window-dressing department. Arms heavy with black, crimson and dead white sheets that needed to be taken to the floor upstairs to be ripped, stitched, dyed and refitted–he was going to stain them if he cried.

He couldn't afford to cry on them, they were worth more than he was.

But he still couldn't just get the damn words out to answer the stupid question the woman had asked and was still waiting for after complaining that she had been waiting for fifteen minutes, didn't he know who she was–

She brought a hand up next to his ear and snapped her sharp, red colored fingers, "Can you even hear me, you little rat?"

* * *

_The neighbor that was probably a dancer, but definitely an artist as well, stopped his spinning after fifteen minutes of being in one place, like he always did when he was stressed and come back after whatever it was he did during the day. He halted, pausing in front of his big, single, red wall that had a little easel set in front of him; plopping down on the floor to take off his wraps and look at the damage he undoubtedly did to his poor feet._

_Evan envied the man most of everything, except the way he treated himself. His feet and hands were always bruised or torn bloody, if not from the dancing or the art where he often used a knife to hack out pieces of his canvas, then from the fights that he seemed to get in at least once every two weeks. Black eyes, bloody nose, bruising, bloodied knuckles; Evan had seen much from the other since moving in but a year ago._

_He once almost ran into the brunet on the street when they were both heading into the flower shop residing between their apartments and asked if he was okay._

_Instead, he'd opened the door for the man and got stuck on, "Are you…" and stood standing there as the taller was looking at him from within the store with fresh daisies in a barrel at his feet, and baby's breath hanging above their heads and drying out for a wedding the owner was most likely to cover happening on Park Avenue._

_Rather than finishing the sentence like an actual normal, functioning human being, Evan had walked–ran–to the end of the block and traveled, on foot no less, the sixteen blocks to another flower shop._

_Luckily, probably, most of the shops in town knew him, so the sales girl, Alana, didn't mind him hiding in the fresh orchids to hyperventilate until he'd calmed down._

_(Fuck, he was pathetic.)_

* * *

"I...I'm s-s-so s-sorry, m-miss. I-I-I'm not a-actually part of t-t-this floor's department..."

And he wasn't. As he stood there trying to explain himself, when he'd been trying to do something nice for Zoe Murphy  _(one of the only people in the building that didn't treat him like he was invisible or ridiculed him)_  so she wouldn't wear herself out doing so much of her own job, he should have actually been in the flower department, in the dark back room where it was quiet. He was supposed to be arranging a very specific order, he'd just stepped out to get a tea from the vending machine.

Really, he should have turned down the other hall where the dried fruit was sold in bags that he thought looked really pretty, but the thought of eating during the day and in the break room around people made his skin crawl and his stomach tighten into a black ball. It made him think if razors hidden in cakes.

The woman hissed something derogatory about his stuttering and brain tumors and he ducked his head back down, clenching his eyes shut, because it looked like she was going to hit him.

* * *

_He sighed, air from his mouth foaming out into a mist as he brought the window down and moved into his kitchen, reminding himself that he'd only opened the window to give his bonzai "Giraffe" some fresh air and to check on the hellebore blossoms in the box he kept outside._

_Padding on the balls of his feet, he tried to imagine what being so talented must be like; to be able to move a body to the whim of music played out or for the joy of it, or to be able to take an image from inside the head and use little tools and liquid to manifest it into the real world._

_Evan could write, of course, he'd gotten a scholarship based on the fact that three of his essays got attention, but it wasn't the same thing._

_Taking some sugar free jell-o out of the fridge, black cherry flavored, he paced around the kitchen island where he had yellow flowers and very fragrant herbs strewn about, trying to assist his boss with an arrangement for a client that meant celebration for some success. The specifics weren't necessary, he'd done this so many times that he could guess the purpose by heart and already chose the centerpiece, anyway._

_It would be nice to have a life outside of such things, but being broke after college meant work was work and he shouldn't complain. At least he had the weekends to wander around Central Park and lose himself regardless of the season._

_"Right," he said to himself and nobody, tucking into the cherry treat and letting it rest on his tongue with the spoon as he made himself comfortable and adjusted the light overhead just a bit._

_He ignored the goosebumps that always decorated his shoulders when he was just wearing his baggy sweatpants and no shirt; no reason to care about modesty when nobody would give him a second glance, even if he wasn't alone._

* * *

"Excuse me, but do I have to call security to report that some bitch in a red suit needs to be kicked out for abusing the staff?"

Evan felt like his head has traveled down into a tunnel of white noise and very little else registers as he was suddenly faced with the broad back he'd found himself watching quite often and therefore knew in detail even when clothing that didn't involve halter-tops were part of the equation.

He even had paint spatters on clothing that looked brand new...

Very little of that moment and following conversation would make sense to him if he tried to retell it, looking back, years later. The man he'd been watching properly introducing himself as Connor Murphy, after he's maneuvered Evan to the room the blonde had been travelling towards in the first place, the staff waiting for their linens excepting them and the explanation for their delay.

They'd probably simply trusted that since Connor was Zoe's older brother that he wouldn't do anything with Evan while still in the store, letting the brunet take Evan to the room where the painters for the backgrounds of the shop windows worked and configured what Evan considered time-crunch masterworks when he was off the job and just wandered the place with coffee in hand and nightfall pitch black outside before he'd even entertain the idea of leaving.

Connor had placed him on an old trunk that he'd seen re-purposed dozens of times in the department as a random collection of one-could-only-guess props, Evan's body sagging on top and his eyes staring dazedly at nothing.

He would later realize he was having a panic attack, but on a low level of severity compared to ones he usually had in public.

And by usually, it meant he'd switched out of being unable to breathe in or out with a spinning sensation, to feeling a bit like a zombie with its brain knocked out and kicked into a water fountain.

It took about an hour before he'd snapped out of it, coming to when Connor pressed a cup of mocha in his hands and spoke to one of the other artists  _(nice girl by the name of Brooke that Evan liked well enough, but avoided on account of her girlfriend Chloe judging him whenever they crossed in the halls, he just **knew** )_ that might have suggested calling a doctor or something, "...and since I'm the one who found him, I'm keeping him. And anyway, we're neighbors; if he needs to go home, I can take him myself."  
  
Evan dropped the mocha on Connor at that comment. He would remember that later in _explicit_ detail.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long for something for short. I kept erasing and re-drafting and couldn't make up my own damn mind.


End file.
